Paradox at Syon in Springtime
Nature fulfils two human needs which we are loath to name: that things change constantly; that they stay they same. In the secret garden I stumble on the spectrum of all flower from white to purplish black via true red; they have the power — or, at very least, the knack — while they last, to make me cry.
Peacocks scream defiance at passing Boeings, lashing the gravel court with garish tails, as I admire the comings and the goings of the mallards on the lake: an anxious drake rivalling another to win a preening duck who gives no clue as to which suitor she finds the cuter, which of these two of ten superfluous males will be in luck.
The first butterflies tu mb le in the sky, desperate to reproduce before they die.
And now a Spanish couple, darkly young, photograph each other under trees. Despite the absence of a common tongue, I offer to bring them together, captured here, now, forever, by chemicals and light. 'Smile please!'
Last spring a different Iberian pair, now separated, married or unchanged, snapped other peacocks, other mating birds, picked other blossoms, wound them in her hair, twined other fingers, other looks; exchanged an afternoon of love in different words. Sitisan Kelly
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